


Mind Sifter

by queenofroses12



Series: Whumptober Star Trek [3]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Episode: s01e27 Errand of Mercy, Friendship, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt Spock (Star Trek), Mind Rape, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:21:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27539824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofroses12/pseuds/queenofroses12
Summary: Missing scenes from "Errand of Mercy." The Mind Sifter was not as easily evaded as it seemed...Prompt No. 6 : Please... (No More, "Stop, Please")(I know Whumptober is officially over, but didn't get time to go over the prompts during the time. So will be continuing the series)
Relationships: James T. Kirk & Spock
Series: Whumptober Star Trek [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1982605
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	Mind Sifter

Klingons have an almost obsessive tendency to gloat. Perhaps it is, at least partly, an interrogation technique. If you can alarm a victim sufficiently just by describing what you are going to do to them, why bother with the actual torture?

As the current victim was a Vulcan, the intimidation factor is nil, not that the fine specimen before him knows that. Actually, the gloating is helping more than hurting. More time to prepare.

Spock appears to be listening intently to the interrogator, his dark eyes fixed on the ridged, growling face, but in fact he is deep within his own mind, strengthening his defenses, building new ones, rearranging memories so as to make them more difficult to get to.

All of his memories related to Starfleet – almost all of the past eighteen years – have been locked away already, in a mental vault modeled upon the apocalypse proof safe room at the Vulcan Governance center.

He now arranges a self destruct. If he fails, if he has overestimated his own defensive capabilities or underestimated the device’s power, still they would not get what they seek. They would merely suppose that the device has broken his mind, as it has done to too many before him – he has seen the victims of such interrogations housed at the ShiKahr Institute of Psychiatry.

“Alright, leaf eater. Last chance.” The Klingon is smiling – smiles are not natural expressions for Klingon warriors, and bodes well to no one. “Anything you want to say before that smart brain of yours gets turned to mush?”

“Only that this interrogation is a waste of your time and mine, sir.” His tone is balanced between offended pride and alarmed subservience – the reaction a Klingon would expect from a Vulcan trader who got caught in the midst of intergalactic war. “I merely ask to be left to conduct my own business. I hold no ill will towards you.”

Technically the truth – he certainly intends to make sure that this interrogation is nothing but a waste of time for the Klingons.

“ _Sir_?” the klingon chuckles. “Well, well, well, a polite little shop keeper, is that what we have here?” The smile widens into a grin. “I was really hoping you’d say that. The sheep here vomited out everything they know the second they saw us, I was afraid I wouldn’t get my chance with this.”

He wonders whether he should pretend to feel some alarm, then decides against it. Merchant or scientist, no Vulcan would demean himself so as to show any emotion, forget fear, before an enemy. He watches the proceedings with typical Vulcan curiosity as the Klingon officer and his assistants attach the device to him.

Interesting.

The device has been discussed extensively in Neuroscience conferences, but this is the first time he has a chance to inspect one at first hand. It certainly does not seem to be of a typical Klingon design – too streamlined and efficient, does not even look particularly like a torture device. Klingon weapons are designed to impart terror at first sight. This one is too practical and mundane in appearance.

Strange, that the Klingons should come up with a technology more suited to a telepathic, or at least more cerebrally inclined race. Klingon interrogation techniques used to be straightforward physical torture. He could have withstood that easily enough. With the Vulcan capacity for shutting out pain, it may not even have been particularly disturbing. But this… It hardly seems a typical Klingon technique.

Perhaps salvaged from some other race? The Klingons are, after all, carrying out their own explorations in their sector of the galaxy. It would not be surprising that they managed to salvage weaponry – if there is one branch of science Klingons excel at, it is the reverse engineering of weapons.

Or perhaps a more straightforward mode of acquisition? The Romulans, are entering into active participation in the galactic arena once again. Perhaps the two races have joined forces against their common enemy, the Federation?

A troubling possibility, even if such cooperation extended only to trade and not actual military matters. The latter is, after all, somewhat unlikely, given the radically different ideologies each race is passionately attached to.

The Klingon officer gives a signal to his assistants. The device is turned on, cutting off his speculations.

……………………………………………

It is dark. Silent. Sensory deprivation, of course. Standard practice for such weaponry.

“Now for the fun part” he hears someone say, a voice that booms and echoes like thunder.

He is hearing the voice twice over, he realizes. In his ears and in his mind. The mindvoice feels like a razor’s touch. He can feel the constant confused aura of anger, of pride, of shame, a scarlet tornado in which the young klingon exists.

Even in the midst of the chaos, his own mind feels clear wonder at how any sentient being can endure such violence within themselves. If this was how all Klingons felt, that would go a long way towards explaining their Empire’s destabilization. He is given no further chance to reflect on that.

“Who are you?” The voice booms again.

“Spock.” There is no harm in giving his actual name – it is quite a common one on Vulcan, and without his family name and clan name, there is little chance of their connecting the generic name to the First Officer of Enterprise. “A merchant.” 

The probe goes deeper, past the part of the mind that communicated through words, into the zone of images and impressions. He summons up the memories of the Tsai Kal, one of the estates owned by his family. The lush orchards and gardens that formed such a startling contrast to the fiery desert surrounding them

. Something that could conceivably form a plausible backdrop for a trader in agricultural produce. As long as they don’t realize the extent of the property, of course, and begin to wonder why someone from an obviously elite family would work as a smallscale trader.

“Pretty.” In the Klingon’s tone, that adjective is an insult. “Let me see if you’ll ever get back to it… Now, who’re you working with?”

“No one.” Speaking an outright lie is distasteful, but necessary. “ I..My business..It’s not elaborate enough for partnership.”

“Hmm?”

The pain intensifies , but that is the least troubling factor. It feels as if there are hands, fingers, fingers that end in unkempt claws, rifling through his mind, reaching, searching, looking deeper than even the deepest meld he had shared ever went.

Memories. That is what they are looking for. This officer at least must have been trained properly. Thoughts can lie. Memories can’t. Or so they believe.

Faces, images, words, some of which he hasn’t thought of in years. Flashes of light, pulses of memories that bloom and are gone before either he or his interrogator can get a hold on them. He manages to reach out for each, grasp and change them before the Klingon’s slower mind can notice. T

he pain is building to a level that is intolerable even for a Vulcan, but he manages to hold on, manages to change the memory images before the other can see them.

Amanda.

Mother.

No, he cannot allow them to see the human face – there are very few human/Vulcan hybrids. In swift, deft move, he substitutes the image of T’Pau – there is some connection, after all. T’Pau is his grandmother, and the Matriarch of his clan – as such, she is addressed as Mekhina, Mother. Rather old to be his mother, but considering Klingon woman are expected to go on bearing children as long as they are capable of it, the interrogator will see nothing too strange in her age.

But with the escalating pain, the effort it takes for that morphing is so great that he has to let the next image – Sarek’s face – pass unchanged.

Fortunately, there is no flicker of recognition from the interrogator. Klingons care little for non combatants, and a diplomat, even one as famous as Ambassador Sarek, is beneath notice. Besides, one Vulcan looks much the same as another to Klingons, or at least, this particular Klingon. 

The pain, even as it escalates steadily, can be tolerated. Much worse is the sense of violation, the awareness that an uncouth, untrained mind is tearing past all his reserves, seeing more deeply into him than he had allowed even Jim to see.

He can, perhaps, resist, block the interrogator’s advance, but if he does that, it will reveal his ability to resist. Right now the Klingon believes him to be completely at their mercy. Let them go on believing it. Let them see the deepest-hid personal memories if that means the more important ones, the Starfleet memories, will remain hidden.

Memories flash by.

Images of Vulcan, of his life.The city of SHiKahr. The buildings mostly of red sandstone and marble, geometric, regular, and aesthetically as well as architecturally sound. A logical city designed for relentlessly logical inhabitants. T

he desert sands, turned by the rising sun into the hue of molten lead. A familiar, safe world. One where the madness that rules the Klingon mind has no place.

“Looks like he’s telling the truth.” The Klingon sounds disappointed. The relief is very short lived. “No, wait…Something else. Hmm, what does a shopkeeper need to lock away this deep?”

The device is turned up to a higher level. It feels like something someone, within his mind, tearing at the walls, tearing apart who he is, what he is. He hears someone screaming, far away, and realizes it is his own voice.

Too late. They are winning..The self destruct. Yes.

But before that, one final gamble, a misdirection. A different set of memories that are hidden, for different reasons. He removes the shield around those. Allows them to see, sense.

He is young, very young. Not more than seven. Taunting, young voices, Vulcan words. None of them shouting, none of them openly jeering, but the words are somehow more hurtful in their matter of fact tones, in the way they seem to be saying, _‘This is how it is, this is what you are, no point trying to change it. You are not one of us, you will never be one of us, and it would be illogical for us to pretend otherwise_.’

He blurs the words – it will not do to get the Klingons wondering why a seemingly full blooded Vulcan would be called Earther, Terran – lets them think that the far away memories have faded out. Memories that still have the power to sting, even when he knows full well that he has finally earned his place, earned the right to be considered the equal of any true Vulcan.

He lets these hidden memories flood his mind, flood the sight of his interrogators. Let them think this was what he was hiding so desperately.

Memories of fleeing into the desert to hide from eyes that watched his every move whether to judge or to protect. Memories of time spent curled up against I-Chiya, muffling his sobs in the sehlat’s thick fur, wondering what was wrong with him, wondering whether he could ever be normal, ever be one of them. Young, childish memories.

The interrogator laughs.

“So you are a freak even there? Hmm? Why, I wonder?”

Another stab of pain, another twist of the claws embedded in his mind.

“My..My mental disciplines..weaker..Not..Not like them..One of them…would have, could have, resisted you…shameful.. ” That is a lie, but it somehow feels true, maybe because he’s still too close to those long past days of bewilderment. “That’s…that’s why I travel…merchant..”

Laughter again. Good.

“Well, freak, you chose a really bad place to run away to. Let us just make sure that is all there is…”

The device’s power is turned up again. Level four. How many levels? No more. Please, no more. Please.

………………………………………….

Finally, it is over.

He wakes up to find himself lying on the floor of the makeshift interrogation room. His face is wet with tears, as well as trickles of blood from his nose and mouth. His body trembles as if freezing, and does not respond to his attempts to gain control over it.

The Klingon officers laugh, looking down at him. One unceremoniously hauls him to his feet. The room whirls around him, and only the rough grip of the Klingon keeps him upright.

“Tell Kor that the shopkeeper was telling the truth. Your business is going to take a real bad turn, freak.” 

He does not respond, this time not because he chooses not to but because he cannot. He’s still too dizzy and confused to resist as two of them half lead, half carry him outside. The fresh air helps to clear his mind.

_Must not let Jim see me like this._

He has worked with humans, and this particular human, long enough to know that no matter how well trained they are, for a certain temperament impulsiveness can override caution. Jim has already made one major misstep in protesting, trying to come to his defense when he was being taken for interrogation.

With a desperate effort of will he manages to pull himself together. By the time he is standing before Kor and Kirk , he has schooled his face into proper Vulcan calm, giving no hint of what has been done to him.

“It was an interesting experience.”

………………………………………………………….

Ayelbourne may be convinced of their safety, but Kirk knows better than to take anything for granted where Klingons are involved. They’ll have Kor and his bunch of gorillas to deal with next morning, for certain. And if they are unlucky, tonight.

They will take it in turns to keep watch through the night, and try to make sense of the Organian’s combination of suicidal pacifism and equally suicidal – and purposeless – rebellion. Kirk knows that different cultures have different value systems, systems that he may find impossible to understand. But culture systems tend to have an internal consistency.

Till their ‘rescue’, the Organian culture had more or less made sense to him. It didn’t stop him from being utterly exasperated with it, but it made sense. There are other races who chose suicide via pacifism than life through violence. It is not an attitude he can sympathise with, but it has its own internal logic.

This doesn’t.

Maybe Spock would be able to make better sense of it, considering his own race’s history with pacifism… Jim glanced casually over to Spock – and froze for a moment.

Spock’s face was contorted in pain, much too pale. Jim darted to his side, his mind going instantly to Kor’s words. The MindSifter.

Sure, Spock had seemed alright, but it was Spock – he would consider it shameful to seem anything other than alright, no matter what had happened. (How the hell is that logical, anyway?)

But now with his shields down in sleep – he should probably have suspected something was wrong when Spock hadn’t volunteered to keep watch all night as he usually tended to do (yeah, they did end up in circumstances like – though nothing quite like – this way too often) – the Vulcan could not stop the effects of the ‘interrogation’ from showing.

Jim kneels down beside him, tentatively reaching out a hand. Spock does not make a sound, even in the grip of whatever nightmare the Sifter’s scars have brought, he manages to stay silent. His eyes move rapidly under their lids. A nightmare, yes, but Vulcans don’t get nightmares, perfect as they are at lucid dreaming. Not unless they are seriously injured, weakened.

“Spock? Spock, it’s alright, it’s over.” Jim whispers, trying to keep his voice calm, trying to keep the rage out of his tones. Kor – honorable enemy, indeed! “You’re safe now…”

Of course he isn’t, they aren’t. But it is a human habit, offering platitudes, false reassurances, when there is nothing else that can be done. Spock murmurs something too low for the human to catch. Something in Vulcan. He’s shivering. Jim hesitates a moment, then reaches out, taking him in his arms, gently cradling the lean, trembling form.

“It’s over.” He repeats. “It’s alright.”

This time he catches what Spock is saying

“Please..Please, no more..I can’t …betrayal..”

“You didn’t betray me. Us. You didn’t let them find out a single thing. And, even if you had let something slip, even if they had made you say something, that’s no betrayal. Not when they’re… Not with the MindSifter. “

Jim holds him close for long moments, trying to project an aura of calm, safety. Maybe it did work, for the nightmare seems to be fading. Spock doesn't wake up, just relaxes back into dreamless sleep.

“It’s alright now.” Jim whispers again.

……………………………………………………

Kirk knows his friend well enough to know that he would be mortified if he found out what happened. He had considered whether he should wake Spock for his turn at keeping watch and pretend nothing had happened or let him get the rest he certainly needed.

Turned out to be a moot point, anyway, since whatever the Mind Sifter had done, it hasn’t messed up the Vulcan’s internal chronometer. He’s awake and alert the moment he is supposed to take his turn at the watch. Jim looks him over anxiously, but Spock seems quite as calm and in control as ever.

“Are you sure you are alright?” 

Spock looks puzzled, as if he doesn’t understand why he is asking. “

Of course, Captain. If I was not fit to maintain watch I would not attempt it in a situation as risky as this.”

He knows that. Spock may be illogically stubborn at times, but he will never put another’s safety at risk. Jim nods reluctantly.

“Okay.”

………………………………………..

Ayelbourne smiles calmly at Kirk as they prepare to depart.

“Good luck, Captain. And commander. Your species…are interesting. Alarming, in some ways, but interesting.”

“I would say so of your own people, Ayelbourne.” Kirk smiles back, but it is a sharper smile than usual. “You…seem to have some interesting ideas of what counts as violence and what does not.”


End file.
